It is clear to see that Vox was not born in the best of circumstances, just by a single glance at her appearance. A late birth and left without warmth for a decent span of time durring a cold winter, Vox’s egg was expected to produce either a dead child, or a malformed one. When she was born, it was obvious to all that this young dragonborn had many disadvantages that her others did not. It took her several weeks to begin walking, for example, while normal dragonborn children take only hours after hatching. However, this is not where all the disadvantages ended. Her scales, unlike the warm colors of her family, were pure as white, and her eyes, a deep shade of crimson. The albino dragonborn is also a good deal smaller, and lighter, than the rest of her brood, at only 5’8” and 180 lbs, making it even more clear that she was the runt.

Otherwise, however, she looks like a normal dragonborn. Her ropey tendrils are usually tied back and out of her way, her scales are of normal size and position, and her hand and foot talons are perfectly formed.

Because of her size, and her vocal disability, she tends to hold her head high to “converse” with people, and stare at them for a while, as her experiences in her home made it difficult for her to interact with her family without doing such. Also, her facial expressions, because of her disability, have become a little exaggerated, as to show what she’s thinking without her having to write it out on her chalkboard. Speaking of which, she carries a small chalkboard around her neck at all times, attached by rope, so she can give orders and instructions using words, not just hand-motions. She keeps a single piece of chalk in her hair, around where it’s tied back, and a pack of replacement-chalk in her bag.

Yet, not matter what, when looking in her red eyes, you can see a sorrow, deep and hidden, that she does not wish to let loose in her actions. She pushes it down, so that other people are still inspired by her, while she, herself, wishes she was like the rest of her kind.

Bio:

Vox’s story begins at “conception.” And by “conception,” I mean “when her egg was laid.” She, along with her seven other brothers and sisters, were created in the tradition of her family: “Protect and Serve the Wizards of the Seven Pillars,” and “Keep the Peace Within the Trading Stronghold.” This tradition had been passed down from generation to generation, since the near beginnings of the Seven Pillars itself. The Tacita family name is well known in the ranks of the guards and police force as being bred for the job…

Just as Vox was meant to be. The brood she was “concieved” with contained four other younglings, all grown and now healthy members of the guard force at the Seven Pillars. They fulfilled what had been drilled into them, from the day they were born, and continued the tradition of the family. However, the fifth of the brood, Vox, was not so lucky. Half way through the development of the younglings, while still within their hard, protective shells, Vox’s egg was separated from the group. This was durring winter, and thus, the egg was without warmth for several hours. Her older sibling, already hatched and watching over his in-egg siblings, didn’t realise that one egg was missing until the damage that had been done could not have been reversed. Many around them, family and friends, as well as one of their employers, said to dump the egg, as it would most likely end up with nothing but a dead youngling inside. However, Vox’s parents had hope, and continued to hope that even after the prolonged cold exposure, they would have five younglings to put into the line of duty in the Seven Pillars.

Vox’s egg was the last one to hatch, out of the five. In fact…if it wasn’t for an accident, then, she may not have hatched at all. Several days after the other younglings had hatched, Vox’s parents began to become worried that “Perhaps…they were right. Perhaps the cold did kill the youngling.” However, as they were carrying it to a place to dispose of it, thinking that the inside of the egg was nothing but dead, the fragile shell was dropped, and out popped Vox, alive…but mal-developed. The family of mudbrick colored, power-house dragonborn looked at the new hatchling in wonder…she didn’t walk for weeks after hatching, unlike the normal few hours it took for most other dragonborn to do the same…she was as white as freshly fallen snow, with eyes the color of blood…she was unable to form words, only able to make basic grunts and growls…and she was a great deal smaller than the rest of her brood. Nevertheless, the family raised her as they did the rest of the brood, in the tradition of Protection and Service to the Seven Pillars, even if many thought she wouldn’t last more than three winters. She was an accepted member of the family, even if her disabilities kept her a bit behind everyone else. Her older siblings and brood-mates looked out for her, and made sure to help her along the way of developing into a guard, like the family way. Her two younger siblings, born within the same brood five years after her own, looked to her as an equal, as she too struggled with them as they began to learn the ropes of pre-guard training.

The childhood for the Tacita younglings was nothing short of “Basic Training.” Their school was military-based. Their up-bringing was nothing short of a lesson in pure-discipline. Their playground was a mix between a training ground with dummies, targets, and a sparring arena. It was hard, had it been most other races working in this environment. However, the Tacita family tradition kept them together, and developed each of their younglings into perfect, proud, ready-to-defend guards and police force of the Seven Pillars.

Every year, the leaders of the Seven Pillars would come down and choose the next members of the family to be inducted into the “Final Training” given to the Seven Pillars guards, and every year, they inspected each of the Tacita younglings like warhorses, making sure each was strong, sturdy, and obedient. Every year, as well, they would pass over Vox, still inspecting her like the rest, but leaving with a message saying, “Perhaps next year…Keep at it, we know you’re trying.”

Vox thought nothing of it, until after her twentieth winter. Up until then, she had been helping the younglings of her siblings, both older and younger, train to the position that she, too, was working for. It was that year that most of her nieces and nephew were chosen, the brood of her broodmates, over her. The leaders did not give the same “Perhaps next year” line they had given her, inspection after inspection, but only gave her a small shake of the head. Later that evening, she overheard the leaders peaking to her parents, who still had power over her, as she had not been wisked away to “Final Training” yet. The conversation was nothing short of heartless, as the leader remarked that there was no way “that malformed runt would ever be powerful enough to make it onto the watch,” and that “The only option, I see, is selling her into slavery. Either let her be crushed by the pillar of Tacita traditions, being a failure for all to see, or let her live a life elsewhere, where she can be of some worth to someone. But…not here. She has no place here.”

This devistated Vox. All she knew, all that had been drilled into her, the militaristic like training…the discipline…the hours of back-breaking labor and injuries, all nothing now because of something she cannot control. The purpose that she had been told is the only thing she could ever become…now gone up in smoke. She had no purpose anymore, as the one thing that Tacita’s were meant for…she would never be able to become. She couldn’t protest it…words could not express her feelings of anger, betrayal, and sorrow, as written words on a chalkboard can only say so much. So, that night, she left. She left everything she once knew, all familiar settings, taking only one of her family’s stock swords, armor, gear, and her speaking-device, and left for lands unknown.

She eventually met up with a Shardmind, Rom, who accepted her and became her “voice” essentially, even if it was somewhat weird, as he did not have a mouth to speak with. They eventually made their way to Winterhaven, where they met up with their current group. They seem to have accepted the mute runt-dragonborn as one of their own, and she feels as though she finally has a place in the world.

Her militaristic upbringing is prominent in her personality, even if she cannot speak. She responds to anyone of a higher social rank as “Sir” or “Madam,” as her strict childhood had taught her. She holds high reverence for authority figures, and unless she finds them tyranical and wrong…she will go along with what they say and do as they say. Away from authority figures, however, she’s “Just one of the guys,” able to joke and laugh…she may have been bred to be a militaristic-machine, but when out of that light, she’s like a guard off-duty: joking, bad language, and humor-based disrespect, but only with people of equal or lower rank that she is. She holds herself proud, and…when just standing around, she is normally “at ease.” Some may say she seems, when in the presence of superiors, to be cold as stone, and unmoving…but it’s just that internal nitch that was forced down her throat at an early age.

She still is, however, having trouble coping with the fact that the one purpose she had in life is gone in smoke. She won’t admit this, even though you can see the sadness in her eyes when she sees guards, doing their duty if you look hard enough. She wants to forget about this entire part of her life, her first twenty years, and live the rest of her life as a normal adventurer.

She will look after her own, and will defend those who she has vowed, to herself, to defend until her heart is no longer beating. Rigid but warm, she inspires those around her, as the runt dragonborn, that was expected to not make it past three winters, that just saved the party’s asses.